


Il vous aime, c'est secret

by i_l0ve_my_az (thebodyeclectic)



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-17
Updated: 2010-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:21:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebodyeclectic/pseuds/i_l0ve_my_az
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Co-written with <b>dadomz</b> on LJ.  Futurefic. Two strangers (who aren't really unfamiliar to one another) meet at a café and improbably fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Il vous aime, c'est secret

**Author's Note:**

> Neither of us speak French and we've never been to France, so please forgive us any errors. We called this the Paris Café Futurefic while we were writing it. No, seriously. Heavily inspired by the narrators from 500 Days of Summer, Amélie and Pushing Daisies, which would explain the trippy 'voice-overs' at the start and end. Forgive us the hipster pretentiousness. Title taken from Quequ'un M'a Dit by Carla Bruni.

This story, as with many other stories, begins with a boy. Well, if we want to be precise about such matters, we would have to say that this story begins with a man who, as with many other men, retains more than a few boyish qualities.

It is half past six in the morning and the boy – man – is sitting in an alcove drinking a coffee and ignoring a croissant at the only café open at this early hour. To be awake at this particular time of day is not a rare occurrence for this man, whose name is Brian, for he has been a sportsman for most of his life and is very much used to waking up at ungodly hours in order to condition himself.

He has now left his competitive years behind him, though, and taken up the only avenue that had been made available to him after his retirement: acting. Well, not exactly _acting_ per se, for Brian will be the first to admit to a lack of skill in that art form, so we will use that unpalatable term _movie star_.

After all, Brian is a very handsome young man who has just, half a year ago, turned thirty. So it is not a surprise that his first forays into French cinema have propelled him into instant superstar status, acting ability notwithstanding.

Brian possesses the brooding charisma of a 1950s Hollywood actor and that indelible quality that separates the merely attractive from that which is worthy of awe. This makes him an ideal hero for our story.

This story opens one fine spring morning, not because it is symbolic, which it could be, but because Brian’s work schedule has decided it be so.

Brian is breakfasting alone, something he prefers – both breakfast and the state of being alone – and watching the empty streets outside the café’s window.

The sun is already peering out of the clouds but it has yet to reach its peak this early in the morning. The air is still cool and clean and the world is relatively quiet. It is as if nature has conspired to make a cocoon of privacy for our little story.

Not that there are no other players in our tale. Because while Brian may be the focus of our story, of course the world cannot revolve around Brian alone. There is Elsabeth, the café’s lone waitress (though we cannot know for sure if she is the only waitperson employed by the café or if she is the only one made to work at this time) and Clément, the pastry maker. But they merely play bit parts in our story so we can be forgiven for not introducing them right away.

Brian has only been frequenting the café for three days but this has been enough for him to come to the conclusion that the coffee here is fine and rich and that no one will bother him while he is here. Brian only stays for half an hour and then he will rush back to his hotel where a car will be waiting to take him to the set of his new movie.

It is a very exciting prospect, this new movie of Brian’s. It has made his manager and agent very happy with him. This movie has the potential to propel him to the world stage. Brian remains impassive for this is not his greatest goal. The time for that has come and passed. He is still alive, though, and healthy and he is human, so he will struggle on.

In stories, the hero will often chance upon a person whom, upon first sight, he will realise will become his greatest enemy, his greatest ally or his greatest love. In this case, none of that is true, for when Brian hears the cheerful “ _Bonjour!_ ” called out to Elsabeth this particular morning, it is not a voice that is unfamiliar to him.

Brian looks up and sees _him_ and is struck dumb.

And of course this _would_ be a love story. This tale is set in the city of love, after all, and we would not have settled for anything less.

The young man at the counter does not see Brian as Brian has chosen a table in a secluded spot – well, as private an area as one can imagine in a well-lit Parisian café – but even if he had seen Brian, it is doubtful that he would wear the same expression seen on Brian’s face at this moment.

And before you come to the conclusion that this story is yet another story about the one who got away, it should be clarified that one cannot lose something that never was in the first place.

So, yes, this could be a story of want and longing if it were set four, maybe even three, years earlier. But it is set in the present, so it is more a tale of growing older and letting go of dreams.

Brian watches the man, in his sweater and scarf, his uncombed hair looking soft and beautiful with the dewy-eyed look of one who has experienced a wonderful night, and has only a vague wish of goodwill for him. That he is happy and content.

Brian waits until the man has left before abandoning his table and saying goodbye to Elsabeth and Clément. He spares a thought to the strange vagaries of fate before dismissing such an odd coincidence to the caprices of chance.

He walks back to his hotel and mentally prepares himself for another long day of work.

*

It is best to mention that this is a cautionary tale.

As is with most cautionary tales, this one strives to be nothing other than what it is. It is resolute in not solely focusing on just one protagonist; rather, it introduces another who is of equal import. For propriety’s sake, we shall call said character Stéphane, a name of Gallic origins referring to crowns and garlands and all things majestic; a perfect albeit ironic namesake for a magical young man who grew up in a prosaic suburban neighbourhood in Martigny, Switzerland.

Now, it is important to note that this is not the first time Stéphane has come to fore within the narrative. He is in fact, the oblivious subject who the initial protagonist, Brian, had observed in the obscure Parisian café. Coincidentally, he is also the very same individual who has crossed paths with Brian, not just once but several times in the past. This gives them a common history of crucial instances.

Today, their paths will cross again.

In this particular moment, it is Stéphane who is sitting in Brian’s usual spot by the café window. He skimming through a dog-eared copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s _Huis Clos_ while absentmindedly picking out the sliced olives from his pizza and filing them neatly aside on a paper napkin.

Stéphane’s personal assistant, Margaux, believes that such a strange habit is the onset of a psychological disorder. He does not argue. She is not the first to bring this matter up after all; Christophe had made the exact same claim some two decades ago when Stéphane had started to segregate circular shaped ingredients from his dishes at every mealtime without fail.

What is the logic behind it, Carolina had asked politely years ago when he had taken her out to dinner for the fourth time and had been caught unconsciously separating his peas from a mound of buttered vegetables on his plate. Stéphane is unable to explain; Carolina concluded that this habit was to be inexplicable to her as it is a by-product of their cultural differences.

In all actuality however, Stéphane cannot find the words to explain. It is a given that the habit is ridiculous and, at the same time, unfathomable. It is nothing, it does not matter, because he can go on and on and on about circles being a symbol of eternity and the act of leaving them behind being a testament to his existence; absconding _essences_ of himself for the world to have and whatnot. But, underneath all the layers of philosophies and verbose descriptions, one principle is certain: he does it simply because he _can_.

Stéphane knows he’s a little bit eccentric and a little bit touched in the head but he gets by somehow. It is what makes him special and sought after in the industry; loved and praised, and that is what matters ultimately.

“It seems to me that you have not turned a page over the past hour or so.” Stéphane is jolted back to reality by the light teasing lilt of Margaux’s voice.

He does not look up.

It is pointless to disagree anyway. It is true, he is unable to concentrate and the words appear collectively as a hodgepodge of incomprehensible Latin alphabet. It isn’t to say that the book is boring—Sartre is ridiculously profound and relevant and will thereby _never_ be boring.

It’s probably just one of _those day_ s where things barely register because one is so cooped up in their own thoughts. He’s been pretty busy lately and his mind’s abuzz. This is not entirely his fault.

Margaux takes the dainty cup from the saucer laid out in front of him and douses the entire thing with honey and milk. Just as she always does and just the way he likes it, she thinks. Stéphane does not care much for the blend; if he had it his way, he would rather ask Elsabeth for another cup. He does not though; he drinks it with nary a murmur or complaint.

He says nothing.

He says nothing about Margaux’s lack of precision and bland sense of taste.

He does this because Margaux is nice and loyal and doting and people like her don’t come by too often. No, not in the harrowing industry he’s in. So Stéphane lets Margaux do whatever it is Margaux wants to do; he lets her talk to him as if he is listening, as if he understands. He indulges her because it is simpler that way.

“Drink up,” Margaux prompts as she readies an array of rainbow-coloured vitamins on his plate. Stéphane resists the urge to make a face. “The streets are starting to fill with people. We’ll have to leave soon.”

Stéphane tilts his head to the side and sees a busy camera crew setting up in the middle of the street. It is an unusual sight; Montmartre does not get that much high production visits after all. Not in such a tiny alley, at least.

“They are filming the next Bond sequel,” Margaux supplies helpfully. “That is Daniel Craig there, do you see?”

Stéphane pulls himself upright hastily to catch a glimpse of the actor. Yes, he is an insufferable spoiled child, France has established that already but times like this remind him that he is just like everybody else: excitable, curious, and nosey. To an extent, it makes him feel important, that unexplainable sense of pride knowing that he is in the midst of something monumental.

Also, it makes for great material. Tomorrow, he is going to recount the story to the audience of his morning show.

“I do not see him,” Stéphane sighs, climbing atop his wooden chair for better vantage.

He surveys the scene. There is a sleek, black Aston Martin on the shoulder of the road with a pretty Hollywood starlet perched on top of it. Unfortunately, Stéphane is unable to recall her name.

Stéphane, however, recognizes the man in the driver’s seat almost instantly but not quite. He knows _that_ face, has seen it multiple times before. It obviously does not belong to Daniel Craig as it is far _too_ dashing and handsome. So _very_ handsome.

And then everything clicks and he figures it out.

The impact of the realization, coupled with Margaux tugging at his coat, nearly sends him toppling over. Thankfully, Margaux has half the mind to hold on to his waist securely as if she had already anticipated his literal misstep.

Margaux helps him down. “Ricardo texted; Sophie Marceau is already in hair and makeup. We have to go.”

“Now?”

Margaux rolls her eyes. “Yes, Stéphane, now.”

It is a given that Stéphane lives in a pretty cloistered environment where every single element is subject to his control; things that are out of the ordinary are mostly unexpected.

Today, however, their paths have indeed crossed and for the first time, Stéphane is knocked off his pedestal.

To stabilize himself, he holds on to the nearest thing—the wooden rack by the door filled to the brim with an assortment of magazines stacked on top of each other. Something catches Stéphane’s eye: the wayward edge of a worn-out back issue of a Condé Nast Traveller that is sticking out slightly.

Stéphane removes it from the heap and inspects it. He is almost surprised to find his own face staring back at him. It is an old July 2012 issue—the cover photo shot by _the_ Skip Bolen while he frolicked in a bucolic English cornfield projecting some 1920s Parisian flower child.

Beautiful.

Stéphane has a copy of it framed in his room. He thinks it would do well for the whole world to see it so he situates the magazine at the topmost.

He smiles. At least some things are still in place.

*

To most people, a day can be classified into a good one, a bad one or a plain one immediately after they wake in the morning. It’s a phenomenon that can probably be explained through science or psychology or whatnot but these things are of no interest in this story. What is meant to be presented are the emotions of its protagonists, sometimes with the complimentary reasoning behind such emotions but, more often than not, just showing them plainly. Human emotions are tricky things; usually there isn’t just one explanation for a certain elicited feeling.

But we digress.

What is meant to be implied by the abovementioned is that Brian has never been one of those people who, upon waking, can immediately determine the overarching tone of their day. See, when Brian was growing up, he would wake as early as possible, eat a light well-balanced meal, then be driven (and, when he was older, drive himself) to the rink where the course of his day was determined by the strange premonition he felt upon first stepping onto the ice.

It is a strange thing but there are far stranger things in life. See, while Brian may not be a superstitious person by nature, his love of figure skating has inculcated certain beliefs in him, the origins of which remain unclear. He wears a few charms on a golden chain around his neck for luck and protection (though he does not remember what compelled him to do this or _when_ he even started doing this), he used to kiss the ice after every good performance (though what that accomplishes or intends he is not certain) and he keeps the tokens given to him by fans close because he believes that their goodwill will spill over into his life and sport (though he does not know why he believes that).

These caprices, which may even be called vanities, have spilled into his life even after his skating years are behind him. Brian prefers to call them habits, though.

So, even when he is supposed to leave for Rouen for a four-day shoot, he asks his driver to stop by the café before they leave so he may purchase a cup of coffee to go.

It is understandable since Brian has lost what was once a constant barometer in his life that he should like to find something else to replace it with.

And it is on that fateful morning that our two heroes meet for the first time when Brian turns to leave and bumps into Stéphane, spilling coffee over both of them. Very theatrical and contrived as in a Hollywood romance but sometimes accidents do happen and they sometimes look practised and rehearsed when, really, it is only misfortune at work.

That is not to say that this meeting is an unhappy one. Neither is it cause for joy. It is what it is.

But wait, you say, were we not told that Brian had known Stéphane from his past? How can this be called their _first_ encounter?

Well, never was it said that this was their first _encounter_ with one another but that it is the first time they have _met_. A fickle play on words, true, and an apology must be extended.

Brian and Stéphane have of course competed against one another, spoken civilly to one another and have worked with each other in the past. They’d been barely out of adolescence when their names had been made familiar to one another but never have they once been introduced. Not in this particular manner, at least--one that is set with limitless possibilities.

It had been taken as fact that they would know each other instead of just merely knowing _of_ one another. Their first encounter had been at the European Championships before their first Olympics where they’d been thrust together and questioned about being two of the youngest Olympians in competition. They’d spoken to the press and, at the end of that interview, had merely nodded acknowledgment at one another.

Their succeeding encounters would follow the same pattern.

This story is really about the meeting of two people and the subsequent relationship that blooms between them. If you have been led to think otherwise, then please accept another apology.

Brian will come to remember the day he met Stéphane as a good day if only because it eliminates the possibilities of more awkward first meetings like, say, if Stéphane had noticed Brian’s awareness of his presence and then they would have had to pretend a prior camaraderie that is absent in their relationship.

Now _that_ would have been a disaster.

Brian is a very truthful person. He is also quite cripplingly shy, though he hides it well. These attributes are not at all conducive to meeting new people or making friends.

Brian and Stéphane are too busy apologising and being aghast, respectively, to immediately notice each other at first but when they do, what occurs is not the electric locking of eyes, the instantaneous feeling of things clicking in place nor is it a moment where an epiphany is conceived.

None of that. Just the spark of recognition in both their eyes and a sudden debilitating feeling of not knowing how to react.

In this span of mere nanoseconds, it should be noted that Brian has managed to burn into his memory the image of Stéphane as he is in this instant: thin but healthy, wearing sweatpants, a button-down shirt and a scarf, hair looking either windswept or like a lover’s hands had run through it, eyes dark but soft and skin glowing with what could only be satisfaction.

Stéphane recovers first.

“Hello,” he says, tone a tad curious but over-all not very shocked at all.

Brian, not imaginative in the least, replies with the same. “Hello.”

Of course while time seems to have stopped and stretched for Brian and Stéphane (as these things do on occasion), the rest of the world has kept pace with itself so it is only expected that Elsabeth has rushed to their side with a rag for the spilled coffee and a clean towel for Stéphane.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Brian apologises yet again, spurred at the sight of Stéphane trying and failing to salvage his shirt.

Stéphane shrugs, smiling. “It is nothing; don’t worry about it.”

“I’m still sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing that soap and water cannot handle.”

Brian can find nothing to say to this and looks down at where Elsabeth is busy mopping up the spilled coffee. “Do you need help, Elsabeth?”

“No,” she answers, smiling up at him. “Just a bit of spilled coffee. It happens much too often to be the cause of any worry.” She returns to her task and Brian, finding no other cause for distraction, turns his gaze back to Stéphane.

Stéphane is wearing that look that Brian is all too familiar with. It is a look that is equal parts amusement, curiosity and disinterest which Stéphane has perfected through the years so that the overall product is one of regal detachment.

Brian is yet again at a loss for words – a not at all atypical occurrence for he is not an overly verbose man – so he is thankful for the interruption of this awkward encounter. His driver, Gerard, is rapping on the café’s glass storefront, gesturing at his watch and making faces which one supposes means that they are pressed for time.

And while we may find this interruption vexing to the flow of our story, Brian is quite relieved that he will have to delay his interaction with Stéphane for a bit longer. Brian hopes that he may avoid it altogether but we know that this wish is impossible. This is a love story after all.

Brian offers up another round of apologies which are waved away as he walks toward his waiting car.

His last view as he is driven away is of Stéphane, towel in one hand, head tilted to the side with that same unreadable expression on face.

*

Brian does not return to the café until one afternoon five days after he has left. In that lengthy period filled with memorising lines, performing most of his own stunts and the endless waiting which is a constant on all movie sets, he takes his meals with his colleague Clémence.

Oh! Please don’t be worried. This isn’t going to devolve into a sordid love triangle or a ménage a trios. A man and a woman can just be friends without any sort of romantic or sexual entanglements, no matter what American films may lead you to believe.

Physically, Clémence personifies every French woman cliché. She is tall, thin, with that perfectly imperfect beauty and perpetually dishevelled hair when it is not being subjected to the ministrations of the hair technicians on set. She is an odd duck, though, and possesses a tricky sort of humour that appeals to Brian.

Their camaraderie stemmed from the realisation that they were both from small French towns and has since built from there. Clémence is more educated but Brian is better-travelled. She teases him about his lack of proficiency at English (he is the bane of the on-set language coaches) while he makes fun of her startling lack of accent (which she has had to fake for this production and claims to have fashioned after his own).

Noon on their third day in Rouen finds them drinking coffee in the shade of Clémence’s trailer, waiting for the production crew to finish setting up their next scene. Brian is paging idly through his script, mouthing out the difficult words when Clémence makes a noise of disgust.

He looks up in time to see her make a face as she removes the lid of her cup and smells its contents. “All of France and still they manage to provide us with swill from Starbucks,” she shudders, tossing her head in a manner that, to Brian, is all too familiar.

“If you don’t like it, then you don’t have to drink it,” Brian shrugs, writing a note on the margin of a particular page.

Clémence idly kicks his foot. “The gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer to purchase coffee for me.”

Brian raises both brows. “You expect me to go into town, dressed like this, and find a café that sells coffee that suits your palate?”

“No,” she replies, imperiously tilting her chin up. “But an offer would have been nice.”

He laughs, shaking his head at her antics. If he had not been privy to her humour, he might have been offended. He downs the rest of his coffee, which is much too sweet and weak for his taste but beggars can’t be choosers after all.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says, drawing out a cheap airport paperback from her purse, “that café Gerard says you visit every morning. Is the coffee there any good?”

Brian shrugs. “It’s decent enough. I like the quiet.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I guess I won’t be joining you then.”

It is a rare thing to meet someone who respects boundaries and conventions. Too often will people want to impose their own customs on each other. Brian and Clémence have managed to get along because they believe in letting people be.

And if her non-invasiveness works towards preserving Brian’s little bubble of privacy then all the better.

*

Statistically, two out of three people believe in the importance of romantic involvement.

Stéphane is not one of the two.

It is not to say that he is pessimistic because Stéphane believes in romance, believes in it so hard and dreams of it all the time. He breathes it, lives it, and loves it— a connection so deep that he feels it is something that is imbedded deep within his soul.

Stéphane believes in romance but not the involvement. Romance is bliss but relationships are too time-consuming and complicated.

Stéphane’s fallen in love thrice: firstly, to another Swiss man he’s known since he was young; next, to an Italian woman during his late teens (a highly publicized stint that has led him to dismiss relationships in general), and finally, to an American man whom he had met briefly at a classy Manhattan club.

Stéphane has also mistaken love for quite a number of other things (like falling in love with the idea of being in love).

It is not something plans, falling in love. It is something that _sort of_ just happens. Love is plenty strange, a lot of people can attest to that, and Stéphane is the type to not question the way of the world. He takes things in strides and deals – that is how he is.

When pressed however, Stéphane will admit to _still_ loving all three. It is hard not to, especially when they’ve all become crucial components of his life. He finds that when you love someone, you don’t just stop loving them. It is something that cannot be diminished, something that never disappears. Over time, one learns to let go and live but love will remain, even when the heart expands to accommodate other people.

And because of this, it is painful for Stéphane to wholly ignore _this_ man’s not-so-blatant declaration of love.

Among other things, it is perfect and beautiful; Stéphane could weep. Duck foie gras at a quaint French bistro and a half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir. Sitting right across the person he’s loved the longest, the deepest, and Stéphane feels that he can die right there and then, happy, maybe.

Yet somehow, something is missing. So he does not respond. He pretends that the Édith Piaf song in the background is glorious enough to drown out the man’s soft ode.

Well, almost.

There is an unarguable sense of finality in the statement that Stéphane cannot disregard. He is at a loss for words; he does not know if it is his place to whisper reassurances. He has always been bad at comforting people. So he sits there awkwardly and aloofly, looking at Roger’s thumb tracing invisible, indiscernible patters on his left palm.

Stéphane knows he is a little bit too emotionally transparent—it’s been his waterloo for quite some time. But no one can fault him, there are far too many unsaid words; things that Stéphane does not want to hear. _I’ve divorced Mirka. I’ve divorced my wife. It was a marriage founded by lies. Every time I looked at her, I thought of you and what could have been. I am taking a chance now. I want to be with you. I want us to be together. Let’s go home. Let’s leave this place._

The illusory sound is deafening.

Stéphane does not trust himself to say anything but somehow his trembling hands speak for him. He shies away from Roger and looks at an old couple in the far corner; _lucky them_ , he thinks.

It is a big decision, one that Stéphane is not inclined to make.

And Stéphane almost cries because he’s confused and weary and he no longer understands himself. Roger is nothing special yet he makes Stéphane feel all sorts of things. Roger, Roger, Roger—Roger with his disproportionate nose, his awkward chin, his large forehead, and his unruly eyebrows. Nothing special at all save for Roger’s stupid, adorable grin, and maybe, well, his stupid, adorable self.

Stéphane cares not for the numerous Grand Slam titles he holds, Roger’s bank account or the Rolex watch he is wearing. Sometimes, Stéphane thinks, Roger has no redeeming qualities but that does not stop him from attending each and every one of Roger’s games until the man’s retirement. It also does not stop Stéphane from falling into bed with him.

It _should_ be perfect but it isn’t. He is unable to say “yes.”

Stéphane has a hard time breathing so he pushes his chair back, wincing at the sound of wood scraping against the marbled floor. He tells Roger impassively, “Sorry I need to use the lavatory” or “Sorry, I need to get some fresh air”—he is unsure as to which exactly.

In the end, he finds himself standing right in front of Luc, the restaurant’s saucier. The man shoots him a look of pure pity. “Another date gone awry, my prince?”

 _Prince_ – this is the moniker half of France has gifted him with. It does not sound comforting today though, just hollow and mocking.

Stéphane does not have the courage to answer. It is pretty much a giveaway; Stéphane would never resort to using the backdoor if he had not wanted to escape.

Luc’s face softens somewhat. Stéphane’s heart sinks a little—it must be a whole new type of low if other people are starting to notice how miserable you truly are. The funny thing is that it has been the same tone and the same expression Luc has been giving him over the three years they’ve known each other.

This is the _first time_ Stéphane understands.

He allows Luc to usher him out to the back alley. In his haste, he forgets to thank him. He realizes this only when he’s boarded the cab he’s hailed from two blocks away. He thinks, tomorrow, he is going to send Luc a box of sweets and maybe a written promise of avoiding a repeat performance in the future.

The phone in his coat pocket vibrates.

 _You forgot your scarf, Cinderella._

It takes a while for Stéphane to understand. When he does, he laughs. He laughs until he is blinking back tears. There is not a doubt that Roger’s already forgiven him, forgiven him like he always does because Stéphane makes for an incongruous non-relationship. Roger has forgiven him but Stéphane’s not sure if he will ever be able to forgive himself.

A few moments later, Stéphane is holding a cup of black coffee. It is night time and all the seats are occupied. He considers asking Elsabeth if he can sit next to her behind the counter, just so he can recover in peace and maybe mope a bit but thankfully there is an empty seat by his favourite corner, across a man whose countenance is obscured by the national broadsheet he is reading.

Perhaps the man won’t object too much if Stéphane sits with him?

The man on the table puts his newspaper down and blinks at him. It is then revealed that, lo and behold, the man is none other than Brian. In hindsight, Stéphane thinks, Brian’s always had wonderful timing. Much like the time he poured coffee all over Stéphane’s shirt.

It is a small matter; Stéphane is not one to hold grudges.

Brian continues to look on intensely. It makes Stéphane feel a little bit awkward. He cannot blame Brian though; they’ve never really conversed in all the twenty years they’ve known one another. Not properly at least. Yes, there were a few shared words and thoughts between them during ice shows, galas, and post-competition runabouts but it was mostly forced camaraderie.

Forced because Stéphane’s never cared much for Brian’s company. Back then, he had never thought that Brian was someone he wanted to be friends with. Brian was, after all, the bane of European figure skating: hot headed, ill-tempered, insensitive, and brusque. Yet so _very_ handsome and that made things worse.

But that was back then, in the past. Presently, Stéphane does not care. In fact, he’s long stopped caring. He’s learned to let go. Let bygones be bygones, everything is different now. It is a whole new playing field. They are older, wiser, and probably more mature. If Stéphane is able to put behind Brian’s obtuse comments from a few years ago then maybe Brian will be nice enough to let him share his table.

Stéphane yields and offers a hesitant: “Would it be permissible for me to sit with you?”

It takes Brian a while to agree. Not out of hostility, he presumes, but curiosity. The tension escalates when Stéphane finds an incriminating snapshot of him picking Roger up from the airport in the sports section of the newspaper Brian is currently reading.

Stéphane is thankful that Brian does not ask questions. An innocent romp with your fellow countryman who is also conveniently a retired athlete should not at all merit suspicion.

The silence is a little bit too offsetting so he asks Brian what it is that he’s doing now. It is not that Stéphane does not know; it is also not that Stéphane _wants_ to know, he already does. It just seems like the polite thing for him to do.

Brian does not point this out. With a renewed sense of tactfulness, he answers with a modest, “I do little things here and there.”

Which is a lie, Stéphane knows, and because Stéphane is unable to stop himself, he says: “You are too humble, my friend. Certainly, a Hollywood blockbuster is anything but little.”

For a moment, Stéphane thinks he’s overstepped his boundaries. Stéphane is not usually the impulsive type (which is a complete lie because every fibre of his being lusts to answer his own impulse’s beck and call). It is a comment friends make. He and Brian are not friends.

Not yet, at least.

Brian seems unperturbed.

He says the least likely thing Stéphane would have ever imagined him saying. “This, from a man hosts a nationally-syndicated morning talk show.”

It is at this moment that Stéphane realizes that yes, they’ve both heard of each other, and yes, the world is a little bit funny. Stéphane knows he should not think much of it; they work in a relatively similar industry anyway. He is also a little bit embarrassed. It is not a very good conversation starter, explaining why you decided to call your show _Bonjour, Coccinelle_.

So he tries to be casual. “Oh, so you have seen one of my shows?”

“Just sometimes, when I am awake,” Brian smiles. “Your ladybug impersonation is quite fetching.”

Stéphane laughs. It is comfortable and nice. Maybe there’s something to look forward to after all.

*Two mornings later, after that strange and nebulous encounter with Stéphane, Brian watches a pack of children kicking a football around on the pavement just outside the café when the chair across him scrapes across the floor.

“Have you ever played football as a child?” Stéphane smiles at him and sits down, pulling the sleeves of yet another too large sweater over his knuckles.

“Of course. It was required in school,” Brian replies, not betraying his curiosity at this turn of events. Stéphane raises an eyebrow and tilts his head and Brian is compelled to expound. “And even when it was not, it was a pastime of many of my childhood acquaintances.”

“So you did not enjoy it then?” Stéphane asks while biting his knuckle through the fabric of his sweater.

“I never said that.”

Stéphane hums thoughtfully. “I only ever played it with Christophe, my brother. I did not like it very much.” He clenches both of his hands into fists then spreads them wide, distorting the fine weave of his sleeves, before pushing his hands into their opposite sleeves.

Brian gains new insight on why Stéphane sometimes used to conduct interviews and press conferences with his arms firmly against his stomach, hands gripping at his elbows. “You might have liked it more if you had the chance to play with a full team,” he says, instead of the question he wants to ask.

Stéphane looks at him with amusement but whatever he might have said in response is interrupted by Elsabeth setting a bowl of café au lait and a waffle topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and red syrup on the table. “Here it is, just as you like, Stéphane.”

Stéphane smiles and thanks her.

“Do you want another?” she asks Brian, looking pointedly at his cup. He declines. She tells them to enjoy their meal and he watches her walk away.

When his attention returns to the table, he finds Stéphane leaning forward on his elbows.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispers conspiratorially.

Brian blinks in surprise but assents nevertheless.

Stéphane makes quite a spectacle of casting suspicious glances at the empty tables on either side of theirs before saying quite seriously, “I love cherry-flavoured things but I absolutely cannot stand the taste of real cherries.”

Brian stares, unable to formulate a response to that and wondering if he should. Brian is the type of person who does not always understand when statements are rhetorical or not.

Stéphane holds his gaze for a long time then smiles wide and bright. “Now it is your turn to tell me a secret.”

And now Brian understands this game.

“When I still skated, I didn’t like to do spins.”

Stéphane pouts at him. “That’s hardly a secret,” he says disappointedly, cutting his waffle into precise quarters.

Brian slowly rotates his cup on its saucer and shrugs. “It is worth the same as the one you have told me.”

Stéphane gets a calculating gleam in his eye as he chews slowly. Brian meets his gaze evenly. He swallows, sets his knife and fork down and says, “Red isn’t my favourite colour but it is a lucky one for me.”

“I like early mornings but I am uncertain whether my preference is natural or inculcated.”

“I have an affinity for ladybugs.”

“I like animals; dogs especially,” Brian offers, feeling bittersweet at the thought of Blade three years gone now and maybe he is not as astute at this game as he had initially thought.

“I once had two cats but I did not get to see them very much,” Stéphane says, stirring his coffee. “They stayed with an aunt and when I came to visit, it would take me a day to coax myself back into their good graces.”

Brian leans back in his chair. “Do you have cats now?”

Stéphane snorts in amusement. “No, too much trouble to _remain_ in their good graces.” He prods Brian with his foot. “It is your turn now.”

Brian rubs his jaw, trying to think of something. “I moved away from home a few years ago,” he says slowly. “I did not think I would like it.”

“And do you?” Stéphane asks, surprisingly soft.

Brian lifts one shoulder. “I find myself surprisingly content with it.”

“That’s good,” Stéphane says and he smiles small and genuine, the most real Brian has seen him. Stéphane looks away, towards the children still playing football outside the window. “I like reading sad books because they seem infinitely deeper than stories about happiness.”

“When I visit Poitiers,” Brian says past the wave of homesickness, “I rent an hour’s worth of private time to skate. Sometimes I go and teach the little children.”

Stéphane’s eyes meet his for an electric moment before he cuts away to look down at his fingers. He pushes his sleeves up then pulls them back down and Brian, who has never been patient, follows the motion with his eyes.

The pregnant silence is broken by the ringing of the bells of the Basilica.

“Oh!” Stéphane glances at his watch. “I am late for mass.” He smiles at Brian, once again unfathomable. “I promised my mother to be a good boy and attend service every Sunday.”

Brian nods, knows this is an excuse but accepts it nonetheless. Brian is not a man given to flights of fancy and self-deception but he has learned, over the years, to allow people to keep their pretences.

Stéphane rises and slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”

Brian is silent, studying his form lit up by the sun seeping in through the glass. He concludes that while he may be an actor by profession, Stéphane is one by calling. “Yes,” he finally replies with a nod. “I will be here.”

Stéphane smiles, no less bright than the sun.

*

The very next day, Stéphane is seated on the table stiffly, ignoring the phone vibrating in his pocket; it is, without a doubt, his sister Sylvia. Anyway, it is far too early for her to call and he does not feel like speaking or fending off calls. Not ones from her, at least. Yes, she means well, but Stéphane would rather if they talked on some other day. Any day, just not this day, not when it’s his only free Monday, not when he’s on break, and certainly not when he’s enjoying Brian’s company over a cup of warm coffee.

Sylvia is predictable in the sense where she likes to call just so she can impose her sisterly nose in his business. It is what sisters do, she once told him. Obviously, Stéphane would not know for sure as he only has one sister.

True to her words, there is not one day where Sylvia does not call. Though the conversations are brief and hasty, she will always make it a point to ask him if he is _still_ able to take care of himself. Perhaps not as blatantly or as eloquently as one would have imagined but mostly tiny inconsequential inquiries that are hard to get by, like if he’s checked the pipes, visited his dentist, turned off the television, if the main doors are locked tight (when it’s already two in the morning), so on and so forth.

And okay, maybe it isn’t just Sylvia checking up on him but the rest of the world as well. He feels more than a bit condescended to, even if he knows for sure that they are all doing it out of fondness and, well, concern.

Nevertheless, it is still quite embarrassing. He does not understand why people feel the need to baby him on a day-to-day basis. He is no longer a child, he hasn’t been one for quite some time and yet he is still being treated like one.

It isn’t that he’s ungrateful or unappreciative of everyone’s collective efforts; he is more than thankful that people put up with him because he knows he’s a handful (an understatement). But sometimes, he just prefers to be taken seriously.

Not a lot of people do. In their eyes, he is perpetually fifteen.

Stéphane is human; there is only so much he can take. When it gets frustrating, he locks himself up inside bathrooms (be it public or private), screaming, repeating, mumbling: _Je ne suis pas un enfant_ , I am not a child!

There was one time that he didn’t though. That was when he drove himself to Paris and found himself the owner of a quaint little apartment at the Marais, one that is the size of a shoebox. He moves into it eventually but ends up folding and telephoning his mother after a couple of days, telling her that he already feels homesick.

Okay, so he’s a little bit contradictory and indecisive too.

So in addition to Sylvia’s constant calls and the world babying him, his parents make it a point to pay him monthly visits. When they do, they bring him a vast variety of fresh produce and poultry to stock up his icebox. Sometimes, his papa brings a toolbox to make sure his air conditioner and plumbing and whatnot are still in working order.

“I did not know you liked strawberries,” Brian states. It is as if he thought it out loud.

“They’re from my parents; they were here for two days,” Stéphane looks pointedly at the Tupperware filled with home-grown garden strawberries. “Why, do _you_ not like them?”

Brian shrugs. “I do not like them, I do not dislike them.”

“I see,” Stéphane frowns. “I wonder if there are actually people who do not like strawberries. I love strawberries; they are like the ladybug of fruits.”

“Ladybug of fruits?”

“Yes,” Stéphane pierces one with his fork and holds it out for Brian to take. “It is red and has spots all over.”

“Ah,” Brian grins and bites the offered fruit from the fork instead. “Well, you have a strange way of looking at things but I’m sure it’s something you hear quite often.”

Just when Stéphane is about to respond, two little girls toddle over to their table with a fistful of paper napkins. Brian looks confused. They stare at Stéphane with huge, unblinking eyes, swaying restlessly from side to side.

Stéphane loves children. He is torn between wanting to melt and wanting to keep them in his pocket. He is also contemplating the repercussions of grabbing both by the waist and running away but well, kidnapping is a felony and civilized people don’t make a habit of stealing children.

So he smiles at them and says, “What can I do for you, _mes poulettes_?”

The older one looks up at him shyly. “I am Sophie and this is my sister, Valérie. We watch your show every morning before school. Will you sign this for us?”

Sophie is blonde and precocious; Stéphane is instantly drawn to her. Valérie is also equally as lovely—freckled and exceptionally tiny with Bambi brown eyes and thick lashes, shyly hiding behind her sister’s lanky frame.

Stéphane pulls out a sharpie from his bag and uncaps it.

 _To Valérie and Sophie,_ he writes, _Les enfants seuls savent ce qu'ils cherchent_ —only children know what they are looking for – a line he quotes from the Little Prince. _Do not ever stop looking, Stéphane._ He ends the note with a simplified drawing of a ladybug.

“Thank you!” Sophie curtsies.

Stéphane thinks he is in love.

Valérie moves slightly and cups a hand to her mouth, whispering something in Sophie’s ear. After a while, Sophie turns her attention to Stéphane and states, “My sister says you smell like cotton candy.”

Stéphane clasps both his hands gleefully. “I do?”

Brian is trying to suppress a smirk.

“Oh!” Stéphane gasps. “How impolite of me—this is my friend Brian, and he makes movies! I do not think you’ve seen any of his movies yet though but then again, I do not think it is something your parents would let you see. Maybe when you are all a little older – much, much older.”

Brian laughs at the introduction and waves.

“There you are! Oh God, I am so sorry.” A young woman scoops both children up in a flourish. “They are usually composed and well-mannered. I hope they did not bother you!”

“No, not at all,” Brian smiles at her. “Good bye little Sophie and Valérie.”

There is something about Brian that makes Stéphane smile.

All right, there are a _lot_ of things about Brian that makes Stéphane smile. Now he can add Brian’s surprising ability to be overly charming to children _and_ mothers to the list.

To reiterate: Stéphane loves children. But he loves men who love children _more_.

Minutes later, Stéphane finds himself saying, “You know, this solidifies my theory.”

Brian licks his lips. “What theory?”

“That girls aged seven and below will ask for my autograph. I am like a national mascot. You on the other hand, attract girls aged fifteen above. I’m pretty sure a lot of them have requested you sign their chests and underwear. Am I right?”

Brian laughs. “I think,” he starts. “I think I have never signed a seventy-year-old woman’s chest. Nor do I want to, for that matter. They are free for your taking.”

“Shame! I believe a handful of seventy-year-olds are disappointed right now!” Stéphane cannot help but laugh as well. The thought of it is ludicrous, after all, though he wouldn’t put it past Brian to amass that type of fan base.

Somehow, in the middle, Stéphane’s giggles dissolve completely and he is left with a lopsided smile on his face. He looks at Brian squarely though, openly staring because he’s pretty much mesmerized. He thinks that Brian should smile some more, show a little bit of teeth. It suits him—makes him look pleasant. Not that he looks unpleasant because Brian is so very handsome.

“But I really do not understand why people want my autograph,” Brian says. “I do not see value in it.”

“Autographs in general?”

“No, just mine,” Brian shrugs.

“Ah, well,” Stéphane responds. “I guess there is no concrete monetary value, if that’s what you’re implying but some things go beyond that. I guess it’s a way for people to feel closer to you or to lay claim that somehow, along the way, they helped you. It is not a bad thing per se.”

“Oh,” Stéphane thinks that Brian’s confused face is adorable.

“People see things in you that you do not see, sometimes,” Stéphane smiles. “A lot of people do.”

“But not a lot of people know me.”

“Not personally perhaps but they know of you. Sometimes, that is enough.” Stéphane leans back against his chair. “Why do you always sell yourself short?”

“I do not,” Brian snorts. “I speak of the truth. I am forgettable as a person and dull. I do not think they like me. Maybe before but not now, I am no longer as interesting.”

“Well, maybe some of them are able to maintain their interest,” Stéphane looks up at him shyly. “There is also the fact that you are not entirely unpleasant to look at.”

“Really,” Brian looks unconvinced. “I think if we go outside and walk around, not one person will recognize me.”

That is disputable, Stéphane thinks but, truthfully, he’s no longer so much concerned about Brian’s inability to be identified by random strangers in public. As petty as it sounds, Stéphane is more bothered by the possibility of venturing out of the café. He is unsure about bringing things out of its comfort zone and, well, their friendship is still somewhat new and fragile. The thought of it is as odd as, say, exchanging addresses and telephone numbers.

Stéphane’s phone vibrates again. Because he is deep in thought (or probably in shock), he pulls it out and reads five of Sylvia’s messages. Apparently, she is standing right outside his apartment for God only knows what reason. Wonderful, now he has to re-organize his schedule. Stéphane thinks that maybe he should remind her that she has her own children to tend to.

“Are you alright?” Brian looks worried.

“Yes, yes. It’s just that my sister’s here.” He looks up at Brian hesitantly. “So I think I have to go.”

“Oh.”

“But tomorrow,” Stéphane puts on his coat and adjusts his scarf. “If you still want, let’s go out tomorrow.”

*

Stéphane is unable to show up at the café until two days later. He finds Brian by their usual spot, perusing an old sports digest. There are customers drifting about, drinking coffee and minding their own business; he takes a seat across Brian.

“I tried to drop by yesterday but my sister wouldn’t let me.” Stéphane starts shedding his mittens. They are bright red and ratty, with huge holes and loose threads. He tries not to sound _too_ apologetic for breaking his promise; it’s not as if Brian’s got nothing better to do than to wait around for him.

“Every time she comes to visit, she makes it a point to make my life miserable. She arrives unannounced and drags me around as she sees fit. It is unheard of really. If she were not my sister, I would have thrown her out of my apartment. Do you think it is possible for me to legally disown my own sibling?”

Brian looks up from the page he is reading and smirks. “I do not know if such a law exists, I am not an expert. But please, do let me know once you find out. I think I would like to disown my own sisters as well.”

Women are very, very tricky—more so when they are your siblings. They are vicious and vile and well, downright scary. It is unexplainable. This is perhaps why, after Carolina, Stéphane’s never thought of dating women again. Ever. They are far too perplexing.

One time, Sylvia had somehow managed to grab a pair of shears and had slit two ugly holes on one of Stéphane’s Burberry coats because she was, in her defence, premenstrual, and he was apparently offending her sensibilities by eating too much Lindt in front of her.

Ridiculous.

After screaming himself hoarse and tossing Sylvia out of his room, he had stomped all the way to the living room and flopped down on the couch next to his father, announcing, “Girls are strange.”

Jacque had only laughed at him and pinched his nose, saying, “No, _ma petite chou_ , you are stranger.”

Stéphane does not know if he should be offended or not.

Brian’s smile disappears. “What happened to your cheek?”

Stéphane’s hands fly automatically to his face in an attempt to cover the purpling bruise (he does not remember if the bruise is on his left or on his right side). He ends up squashing both his cheeks and puffing his lips like a goldfish. “Oh God, it is _such_ a long story and I am embarrassed.”

Brian frowns. “Did someone do this to you?”

“No, no,” Stéphane shakes his head.

But if he had it his way, he’d surely blame Sylvia.

Yesterday, he and Sylvia had gotten into a huge fight. She had said that ‘some little bird’ had informed her about the whole fiasco with Roger. Stéphane does not know who this ‘little bird’ is but he’s quite certain he’s told no one but his mother. Sylvia asked him if the story was true. Stéphane did not deny it but neither did he confirm it—it is his business and no one else’s. He was not and is still not obligated to answer the question.

Sylvia had taken his silence as an affirmation. So she had prattled on, had told him that he was a coward and a horrid, horrid, ruthless, soul- _less_ person, because had he been smart enough, or decent enough, he would have probably just taken Roger’s offer. Or declined but definitely not run away. Or escape.

To her merit, Sylvia does have a point but Stéphane does not like it when people bother him with their unwanted opinions. So he had remained petulant and unapologetic for his actions. He had told her rather casually while sipping soda on the kitchen counter, “If you are so interested, why don’t you go marry him instead?”

But his arrogance hadn’t sat well with Sylvia, whose own arrogance is unrivalled. In an act of rebellion, Sylvia had slapped his drink out his hands and had yelled at him to “get over himself.”

He resolved to not speak to her after that outburst. That was his last can of Coke and he wasn’t inclined to make another trip to the supermarket.

Besides, silence is a much better company than a stubborn, hypocritical, old cow.

This is the part he tells Brian: because he was so desperate to send Sylvia back to Lausanne, he logged on to the internet and tried to book her a plane ticket. Tried being the operative word. Somehow, Air France’s main website directed him to the 404 error page. After two hours of constantly clicking the ‘refresh’ button, he decided to give up and find another way.

He finally managed to come up with an idea. So that night, he slipped Sylvia an Ambien. It does nothing to her of course because on top of being insufferable and right all the time, she is also apparently bionic. Sylvia stayed up until three AM, delighting herself with some French-dubbed cartoon.

He figured that for the first time ever, the world is conspiring against him.

After an hour or so, Sylvia fell asleep. At four—unbelievably ungodly—AM. So with the lights still out, he headed to the kitchen with his mobile phone in hand, where he tripped and hit his cheek on the kitchen counter thus the bruise.

The end.

“Now, that is a little bit uneventful,” Brian laughs, low and boyish.

“Yes, well, my life has always been uneventful, actually,” Stéphane tugs the hem of his sweater and plays with a loose thread, looping it around his index finger. When he looks up, Brian is staring at him. Stéphane does not think much of it; Brian likes to look at things a lot. Especially when he’s not paying attention. It should not be unsettling.

To catch Brian’s attention, Stéphane asks, “When was the last time you went skating?”

The last he himself had been was two weeks ago at Hotel de Ville.

Brian shrugs. “I cannot remember. Maybe a year ago or less. I don’t like skating in public anymore.”

Stéphane hums.

He thinks of Brian skating alone in Poitiers, thinks of his skilful jumping. And they stay silent again for a little while until out of the blue, Stéphane says, “I’ve never been to Poitiers.”

Brian does not respond concretely but he nods in acknowledgement.

This gives Stéphane an idea. When Brian finishes his coffee, Stéphane is going to stand up and command Brian to “come with,” like it’s the most natural thing to do. And because Brian is curious and gullible, he will follow Stéphane out with nary a protest or a question.

The scene plays out the same way Stéphane imagined it. They step out of the café together and he is filled with a sense of ease. It feels right somehow, like it is supposed to happen—a natural progression and all. Stéphane does not say anything though; he simply leads Brian to his car: a cherry red Volkswagen New Beetle.

“You own a Ladybug!” Brian exclaims, mirth in his eyes. He runs a hand over the car’s exterior.

“Are you surprised?” Stéphane laughs as he unlocks the passenger side of the car.

Brian pulls the door open. “A bit, yes. I didn’t think you were one to give into stereotypes. Aren’t you sponsored by Ford?”

“A long, long time ago,” Stéphane enters the car. “But I am every bit stereotypical. Anyway, shouldn’t you be sponsored by Aston Martin?”

“I wish.” Brian looks at the objects strewn all over the seat. “Your car is congested.” And it is congested – filled to the brink with books piled on top of numerous CD cases, stuffed animals strewn all over the dashboard, half-empty water bottles shoved in several inlets.

“Sorry,” Stéphane takes several armfuls of things and dumps them all in the backseat. “I’m a bit of a pack rat.”

Brian slides in cautiously and picks up a stack of CDs from the floor. He skims through Camera Obscura, New Pornographers, Daft Punk, Postal Service, Stars, Noah and the Whale, Plasticines, Fleetfoxes, and then stops abruptly at Télépopmusik.

“Is this you on the cover?” Brian asks.

“Just my eyelids,” Stéphane bites his lip. “They heard I was a fan so they called my agent to ask me to collaborate. Initially, they wanted me to sing the chorus to one of their songs. I told them that no amount of synthesizer is capable of making my voice sound pleasant. They insisted. So now, if you listen to the third track? You’ll hear me say one line.”

“Okay, may I listen?”

“If you’re willing to withstand the torture.” Stéphane inserts his iPod on the dock and plays the song. Brian listens intently, tapping his fingers against his knee. He says nothing (out of courtesy, perhaps?) and the entire album plays.

Half an hour later, Brian turns to him and frowns. “Where are we going?”

They are currently in the outskirts of Paris. “Poitiers.”

“What?” Brian straightens up a bit. “But that is four hours away!”

“I know.” Stéphane overtakes the car in front of them and increases speed. “You can sleep if you want.”

Three hours later, they are in the Patinoire Olympique. Stéphane has somehow managed to rent two pairs of ratty, overused skates. The rink is near empty, save for an old couple skating.

“How did we get here?” Brian asks groggily, taking in the scene.

Stéphane throws his head back and laughs. “I purchased a map and asked around.”

Stéphane enters the rink and skates around in loops and circles. Hands throw up as he twirls and spins, but nothing too extraordinary. Not like before. He motions for Brian to follow but the man stands rooted by the boards.

So Stéphane skates towards Brian. “Come now, skate with me!”

“No, no.” Brian shakes his head. “It’s been too long. I don’t think I can.”

Stéphane does not push. Instead, he skates away to the centre and attempts a wobbly quad. He lands on the wrong edge and ends up sprawled, chest first, on the cold surface. It is comfortable so he does not make a move to get up. A few minutes later, he flips around and finds Brian staring down at him.

Stéphane giggles. “You’re on ice!”

Brian is slightly apprehensive. “Are you alright? Can you stand?”

Stéphane nods and pushes himself upright from the ground. He turns and gives Brian a smile. “When I was nine, no one wanted to coach me.”

Brian does not respond.

So Stéphane continues. He says, “They said it was impossible for me to be a good skater. They said I wasn’t special enough. Except for my dad, he said that if I wanted to, I could.”

“And he was right.”

“Yes,” Stéphane smiles before pausing for a moment. “I love him so. Except for that one particular instance when I was eight—he keeps telling me that it was unintentional and he hadn’t meant to be insensitive. See, I found this beautiful little pigeon on the roof of our house. So I caught him and decided to make him my pet. Two days later, my dad served squab. It was a pigeon he had found in an old cardboard box. I cried and cried for weeks on end. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven him for turning Russell into a gourmet meal.”

Brian remains silent.

“Another secret?” Stéphane moves closer to Brian. “I tell people that my favourite cartoon is Aladdin when it is truly Little Mermaid. This is mostly because I am told that the latter is an unconventional cartoon to like when you’re a boy. I’ve always liked the sea, and I’ve always loved the thought of dancing and singing. You know, I knew _all_ the songs to the movie. Also, I thought I could relate to Ariel, her curiosity, her lust for life.”

He is standing so close now that he is able to feel Brian’s warmth.

“But I guess I’ve always been different. I was smaller than most boys my age and didn’t enjoy running around as much, didn’t like getting sweaty. I liked painting and drawing and watching movies, tame hobbies. And only strange things happen to strange people—when I was four, we frequented this public playground. That day, I was wearing Sylvia’s purple jumper because I poured juice all over mine and you know, this one little boy came up to me and planted one on my cheek like this,” he presses his lips quickly against Brian’s cheek. “Then he up and left.”

With a cheeky smile, Stéphane turns around and skates off gleefully.

*A few days after, Stéphane is in the middle of telling a story about a horse, his production assistants, a table of flammable juggling implements and the disaster that ensued when a group of children in his audience mistook said horse for a unicorn when Brian comes to the sudden realisation that Stéphane is never still.

Brian, on the other hand, has always been a quiet person – both in words and in action. His mother can attest to this. As a child, Brian could sit still for hours at a time and stare at the subtle change of colours as the wind blew over the blades of grass in their garden. It used to worry his mother, who already worried more than enough about him, until his sisters convinced her that it was just his way.

Stéphane, though. . . Stéphane is constantly in motion. He fills silences with his words, forces his body into movement, fiddling with his sleeves, his scarf, the hem of his shirt. It seems as though his hands always have to be preoccupied with doing something, almost independent from the rest of his body.

Stéphane ends his story with the appearance of the police and the fire brigade. Brian laughs because he cannot help but mentally elaborate on the story with those firemen and policemen insisting on having their photograph taken with Stéphane. It would not be such a stretch from the truth.

Stéphane smiles at him, his hands busy with tearing his croissant to flaky pieces.

Brian unthinkingly reaches out to still his hands.

Stéphane looks at him with combined amusement and askance. Brian quickly removes his hand and clears his throat self-consciously. “Are you free this morning?” he asks, to distract from what had previously occurred.

“Sunday is my day of rest,” Stéphane replies, the very picture of curiosity.

“You have no plans today?”

“No,” said with a shake of the head and a smile.

“Good,” Brian nods, pulling out his wallet and paying for their meal. “I would like to take you someplace.”

“Where?” Stéphane asks but shrugs on his jacket nevertheless.

Brian smiles. “It is my turn to be mysterious now.”

Stéphane pouts but follows him out of the café, both of them calling out their goodbyes to Elsabeth.

“Tell me,” Stéphane commands, imperious as they walk past vendors selling flowers.

Brian turns and smiles placidly. “No.”

Stéphane responds with an almost sceptical look but subsides when Brian remains unmoved.

“Tell me, then,” he says instead, smiling and waving at a few vendors. “Do you really have the time to play games with me today?”

Brian shrugs. “I was not needed today.”

“Surely it must be different to work for such a big, international production?” Stéphane teases.

“Not very different,” Brian replies, touching Stéphane’s elbow to guide him down a corner.

Stéphane laughs. “I refuse to believe that.”

Brian smiles, conceding. “Everything’s bigger, yes, but my duties are still the same. I think there’s more pressure to succeed? That’s hardly new, though.” At this, they exchange looks of understanding and Brian is glad that even though they are different people now, something from the past remains.

“And what of the people?”

“You cannot help it, can you?” Brian laughs at Stéphane’s look of confusion. “I feel as if I’m being interviewed.”

Stéphane suddenly stops and mock gasps. “Are you implying that I am nosy?”

Brian holds up both hands. “I am saying you cannot help it.”

Stéphane slaps him lightly on the arm. “You do not have to answer if you don’t want to,” he chides.

Brian shakes his head, smiles, and prods Stéphane in the right direction. “I’ve been filming with Clémence, for the most part. The scenes where I interact with the other actors are being scheduled next week.”

“Oh!” Stéphane suddenly clasps his hands together. “Cleménce is lovely! Don’t you agree?”

Brian tilts his head in concession. “Lovely, yes. But odd. More odd than lovely, I would say.”

“People say that _I_ am odd,” Stéphane says mildly.

Brian pauses at that then reaches down to brush his fingers lightly over Stéphane’s. “I did not say that it was a detriment to her character.”

Stéphane huffs out a tiny laugh. “All people are odd, I think. It’s what makes us human.”

Brian hums his agreement and they walk in silence for a bit until the spire of the Eiffel Tower rises in the forefront. Stéphane tugs at Brian’s sleeve and forces him to stop. “Is _that_ where you’re taking me?” he asks, tilting his head in the direction of the tower. He raises both brows, the very picture of befuddled amusement. “How . . . quaint of you.” He squints at Brian, playing at reading him. “Or strange,” he amends, smiling.

Brian pretends to be offended for a moment before lightly urging Stéphane to resume their pace with fingers on his elbow. “No, that isn’t our destination.”

Stéphane allows himself to be herded, tilting his head to look at Brian’s profile. “Do we need a blindfold? Surprises usually do. I’ve a scarf in my bag.” Stéphane pulls out a ladybug-patterned scarf (clearly handmade) after a minute of rummaging through his bag.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Stéphane pouts and wraps the scarf around his neck while Brian navigates their way through the Trocadéro gardens. “Then it won’t really be a proper surprise, will it?”

“In my experience, the best surprises don’t need one. But if you insist. . .” Brian moves so that he’s behind Stéphane and reaches to cover his eyes with both hands.

Stéphane laughs, clear and bright, letting himself be led.

“Are we there?” he asks, breathless, when they finally stop.

Brian nods, remembers that Stéphane can’t see him, then says, “Yes.”

He removes his hands and Stéphane blinks rapidly at the sudden brightness before turning back to Brian, grinning. “The Cinéaqua!” He takes Brian by the wrist and tugs him to the ticket kiosk where Brian presents his annual pass and they have a minor argument over who will be paying Stéphane’s ticket (Brian emerges victorious) before entering the cool dimness of the aquarium.

They see a few children off to one corner gathered around a pool with glass sides. Stéphane immediately pulls Brian in that direction, throwing Brian a smile over his shoulder. Brian smiles, small and private, utterly charmed.

Stéphane kneels down in front of the touch pool between a little girl who is maybe four and a young boy who could be ten. They both turn to look when he dips his hand in the water. Brian looks around to see if any of the aquarium’s staff is in the vicinity because the touch pool is solely for children, though he does not doubt for a moment that Stéphane will manage to convince said staff otherwise.

When he has finished assuring himself that Stéphane will continue to remain unchastened, he turns to see that Stéphane has the little girl in his arms and is helping her reach farther into the pool. The boy is leaning against his side, talking about seeing the same fishes in his favourite Japanese cartoon.

“Have you ever had pet fish, _Coccinelle_?” the girl asks, looking up at him and clutching at his sleeve, unwittingly leaving a damp impression of her hand on the fabric.

“I had a cat,” he answers, bopping the girl on the nose with his finger. “And we all know what happens when a kitty sees fish, don’t we?”

The little girl giggles through her hands and the boy laughs. Behind them, Brian can see their parents exchanging amused glances before moving to relieve Stéphane of their children’s attentions. Stéphane waves goodbye to them and stands, moving to Brian’s side.

“What next?” he asks, just as a group of adolescent girls shriek past, exclaiming over the shark tunnel.

“Sharks?” Brian suggests blandly.

“Sharks,” Stéphane nods seriously before breaking out into a smile.

*

“I never would have taken you for a fish enthusiast,” Stéphane remarks once they are in the Pacific coral reef exhibit.

Brian observes his profile for a moment, exotic and strange in the shimmering blue darkness of the lights reflecting off the water. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t have the look of it, is all.”

“And what does a fish enthusiast look like?”

Stéphane looks him over once, quick and amused. “Not like you,” he quips then moves to place his hand on the glass partitioning of the aquarium, staring up at a passing school of surgeonfish.

“I like looking at fish,” Brian shrugs, unable to articulate his emotions and not feeling the need to defend himself.

“Hence the annual pass,” Stéphane responds, squinting at a mishmash of fish wandering close to where his hand is pressed.

Brian pushes his hands into his pockets. “It’s very . . . relaxing. Calming.”

Stéphane gazes, rapt, at a pufferfish that has wandered into his sightline. “They have nothing to worry about. They can just be.” He imitates the fish’s face, puckering his lips, cheeks filling with air and opening and closing his mouth in turn.

Brian grins. “Yes, especially in an aquarium.”

“It’s completely opposite to what humans experience, don’t you think?” Stéphane walks farther down the viewing area and Brian follows. “These fish are on display yet they can live freely without fear for their lives against some unforeseen predator. When we are put on display, we are less ourselves.”

Brian takes his hand and forces him to stop. “I think that only happens when we allow ourselves to live that way.”

Stéphane shrugs, pulls away. “When can we ever be true to ourselves? When we’re alone. People can’t help changing when there are others around to judge them.”

“Stéphane . . .” But he no longer hears Brian. He has crouched down beside a little boy and is pointing to a pair of clownfish while they both exclaim, “Nemo!”

*

The spring sun seems astonishingly bright after hours spent in the artificial darkness of the aquarium. Brian squints against the sunlight as he and Stéphane make their way through the exit. Their easy rapport had devolved into Stéphane telling amusing, inconsequential anecdotes after that honest conversation in the Pacific coral reef display where Stéphane had almost been tremulously vulnerable.

“And she said to me, ‘Uncle! That is not a ladybug! It is a red turtle!’” Stéphane concludes with a chuckle.

“Nieces,” Brian agrees, commiserating.

“Yes,” Stéphane nods. “I told her it would be the last time I baked for her and she said, ‘Thank goodness!’ I have never been so insulted in my life!” He grins and Brian smiles back. “And how is _your_ niece?”

“She is almost a teenager now,” he says, fond, as he follows Stéphane down the path. He thinks Stéphane might be leading them towards the carousel. “I was anxious, thinking all she would talk about would be boys, but she is more in love with football.”

“Another sportsman in the family?” Stéphane teases.

“She is my niece,” Brian shrugs. “Of course I think she is very good.”

Stéphane laughs. “I think my niece is the smartest, most beautiful child in the world,” he says, throwing his arms wide in emphasis.

“So do I,” Brian nods. “It’s strange, though. Our relationship is different now, which is expected. Still, she becomes less open as she matures; more likely to keep to herself.”

“Ahhh,” Stéphane knocks their shoulders together. “Just like her uncle, it would seem.”

“You think I am moody?”

“I used to,” Stéphane nods, wrapping an arm around Brian’s and pulling him along. “You were very irritable during competitions and in press conferences. You seemed a very unpleasant person back then.”

“Is that why you avoided me back then?” Brian asks, very curious.

“Partly,” Stéphane replies, lifting his chin and eyes filled with amusement. “Now, I realise that you’re a very honest person. Frequently contemplative. You seemed such a brute when we were younger.”

“Because I had no artistry or grace?” Brian remarks, not at all offended. It is nothing he has not heard before and not something he hasn’t agreed with a million times over.

“No,” Stéphane says with a shake of his head, directing Brian to one side of the carousel where a busker sits, strumming his guitar. “Because you treated what we did as purely a sport when it isn’t. Not completely.”

They stand amongst a small crowd of people listening to the guitar player sing a strange English version of _Je N’en Connais Pas La Fin._ Stéphane hums along at first then starts singing along. Brian half-smiles when he taps a young woman on the arm and asks her to dance, making an exaggerated bow.

They start up a waltz, with Stéphane meeting Brian’s eyes every few steps or so. It is a spectacle, yes, but a very small one. Stéphane and his partner have the crowd’s attention but the busker does not seem to mind – he is smiling too.

Brian claps along with the crowd when the song ends. Stéphane and his partner bow; she is laughing and he goes to hug her, kissing both her cheeks after. She blushes, thanks him, and goes to hold her smiling boyfriend’s hand while Stéphane returns to Brian’s side.

“You’re a very good dancer,” Brian compliments. Stéphane smiles.

“ _Bonjour,_ my prince,” the busker calls out.

“ _Bonjour,_ Terry,” Stéphane returns, stepping closer to the busker’s open guitar case. “How are you this fine day?”

“Very well, thank you. Even better now that you honour me with your presence.”

“You flatter me.”

“No, _you_ flatter me,” the man winks. “What can I play for you today?”

Stéphane grins, devious. “This is my friend, Brian,” he says, tugging Brian to his side. “He wants you to play Britney Spears.”

Brian pretends to splutter. “I asked no such thing.”

“Shh,” Stéphane mock whispers. “Play along.”

Terry winks knowingly. “Ahhhh,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “I see now.”

“So will you?” Stéphane asks, eyes wide. “For Brian.”

“Of course,” Terry nods. “For you and your friend, I will.”

Stéphane beams and Terry starts playing _Sometimes_ , which sounds odd but not at all unpleasant to Brian’s ears. Stéphane sings along and tries to prod Brian into dancing with him. Brian demurs and Stéphane pouts at him, though he continues dancing along. When the song finishes, they clap and Stéphane drops ten Euros in the guitar case, telling Terry that he will see him tomorrow.

“You visit him here often?” Brian asks, once they are a few metres away.

“Not as often as I’d like to but, nevertheless, we see each other fairly often.”

Brian frowns. “How?”

“We are neighbours, of course!” Stéphane says, leading them towards a crepe stall.

“Unless you live in a hovel, I don’t see how that’s possible,” Brian replies as diplomatically as he is able.

Stéphane turns, confused, then bursts out laughing. “Oh! No! Terry only does this for fun on the weekends. He is an investment banker during the week.”

“That’s. . .strange.”

“Well, he loves music; surely there are stranger things in the world.” Stéphane tugs his sleeves over his knuckles. “You _do_ like music, don’t you?”

Brian shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“Another reason I did not think we would get along,” Stéphane says quietly.

Brian does not think he should feel so slighted. “Because I am indifferent to music?”

Stéphane looks up, looks him in the eye. “Because you do not feel it. When you performed, it was as if you did not hear your song. That was strange to me.”

Brian holds his gaze for an infinite moment then looks away.

“Well, at least you don’t hate it,” Stéphane says, consolingly. “Else it would ruin my plan!”

Brian looks up, tilts his head in askance.

“Are you free this Friday night?” Stéphane smiles, mischievous.

Brian tries to recall his schedule. “No, not Friday. Thursday, though.”

Stéphane nods. “Better. Less people. All right!” He claps his hands. “Meet me at the café Thursday night at eight.”

Brian is sceptical. “Are you sure you will remember our appointment?”

Stéphane laughs and pulls out his phone. “I will call my Margaux now and have her remind me.”

*

And there they are at the Le Baiser Salé, listening to an amateur Jazz group doing a cover of Angèle Durand’s _C’est si Bon._

This is how Stéphane usually spends his Fridays although today is a Thursday.

It is beautiful and idyllic; random strangers gathered around candle-lit tables, nursing a drink or two, humming and drumming their fingers to the song. Stéphane would usually just sit back and marvel, drown himself in the music and think about all these people – their pasts, their futures, who they are, where they’ve been, their dreams, their ambitions, their families, if they wore boxers and briefs, and he would amuse himself endlessly with the stories he fashions from his imagination.

Tonight, though, he does no such thing. He simply presses his cheek against Brian’s shoulder and closes his eyes. It is a little bit like sensory overload—listening to intoxicating music and drowning in Brian’s scent. It is pleasant, a mixture of coffee and musky cologne. Stéphane is unable to find a suitable term to describe how he smells.

With a contented sigh, he turns his head and rests his chin on Brian’s shoulder. “This is a lovely song.”

It takes a while for Brian to respond but Stéphane takes no offense. Brian is easily distracted and it takes a while for things to register. Or maybe things register quickly and his actions are delayed.

Brian is still holding on to an empty paper cup from the coffee shop, completely immobile and stiff. Stéphane blows hot air onto Brian’s neck in the hope of tickling him, loosening him up, but the act does not faze Brian and he remains completely impassive and still.

“I want to dance,” Stéphane whispers. “But there is no dance floor.”

Brian smiles at him. “It has never stopped you before.”

“That is true,” Stéphane says thoughtfully.

Brian settles back and looks at the band, then at Stéphane, back and forth intermittently. Brian likes to be the spectator, the observer, Stéphane thinks. It is just the way he is. He likes to look and he likes to think.

But Stéphane is not like Brian. He likes being in constant motion. So he stands up and grabs hold of Brian’s elbow, urging him to follow.

And like one of Pavlov’s dogs, Brian follows.

Stéphane wraps his arm around Brian’s waist and leads him through the maze of wooden chairs and the throbbing music, past the hazy lights, the obscure corners, the young professionals downing their glass of liqueur and spirits by the bar until they stumble outside in the middle of the street.

He takes Brian’s hand and laces their fingers together.

“Now,” Stéphane breathes. “Now we dance.”

Brian’s grip is surprisingly strong. His hands are also sweaty. “But I do not know how to dance.”

“Nonsense.” Stéphane puts his hands on top of Brian’s, their hips parallel. He steers Brian’s movements, backwards, and forwards. Slowly at first. “Let your body do what it wants. Just feel the music; don’t think too much.”

And so they proceed, gliding in the middle of the street; faster, and faster, until the world blurs around them in rough Technicolor. Like transients and vagrants, moving and moving and holding on to vestiges of stolen music. And they dance in reckless abandon, like Hollywood clichés and old movies.

They dance as if no one is watching, dance under the light of a lamppost, bodies mere inches away from one another. Brian’s hand is light at the small of Stéphane’s back, fingertips brushing against his spine. They move around in quick succession, swiveling, and touching.

Stéphane laughs gaily, throwing his head back and holding on to Brian’s shoulders.

And they don’t stop. They don’t stop even when rain starts to fall on Stéphane’s cheeks, little by little at first, hanging on to the tips of his lashes.

The rain eventually starts pouring; the sound of spatters hitting iron roofs and cemented pavement overwhelms the music. Even then, Stéphane does not let go; he simply backs Brian up against the lamp post and leans forward slightly for support and for warmth. They are drenched right now, and their clothes are clinging to their bodies.

He looks at Brian, who is looking down at him, smiling, and he is once again at a loss for words (this is no surprise; it is a recurring realization).

He leans closer this time, hands holding onto Brian’s arms for leverage. Standing on his toes, he no longer thinks about anything and just presses his lips against the corner of Brian’s mouth.

Hesitantly at first, until Brian’s hands are cupping his face and positioning him correctly, and they continue. Things become frantic and torrid after, until they mellow and break apart when they’re both short of breath and shivering.

Stéphane is the first to pull away. He looks at Brian shyly and thinks that Brian is still so very handsome. The thought never gets old. He rests his cheek in the crook of Brian’s neck until the rain stops.

*  
They go to Brian’s hotel.

He does not know what he’s doing, is unsure of this course of action, certain only that Stéphane’s eyes are filled with dark promises. Or so he likes to tell himself. It is not so much self-denial as it is a particular kind of blankness where one does not try to think too much as to prevent oneself from daring to hope.

They walk through the lobby, damp shoulders brushing, Brian nodding amicably at the attendants on duty and Stéphane taking in the understated old world elegance that many establishments in Montmartre aspire to in blatant contrast to their relatively new edifices.

By some unspoken agreement, they choose a lift empty of people. When doors slide closed, Stéphane crowds Brian against one wall, enigmatic and pleased at the same time. Brian opens his mouth to speak – what he plans to say, he does not know but it becomes moot when Stéphane presses a finger to his lips to silence him. He takes Brian’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucks, breathing in Brian’s exhales.

The doors ping open and he pulls away, pulls Brian out of the lift, their hands clasped together. Brian allows himself to be led along by both hands, subtly steering Stéphane in the right direction.

Brian stops him when they’re in front of his door and goes to pull out his key from his jacket pocket but Stéphane is impatient and pushes Brian up against the door, pulls his head down and kisses him hard and hungry, open-mouthed and all tongue. It takes Brian by surprise – it does not seem to suit his perception of Stéphane – but it does not take him long to return the kiss, shoving his hands in Stéphane’s back pockets and pulling him closer.

Stéphane makes a pleased noise and insinuates a leg between Brian’s, writhing, and providing them with much needed friction. Brian spurs into action and switches their positions, pushing Stéphane against the door and grabbing his free leg and hitching it up. They part for air. Stéphane wraps his leg firmly around Brian’s waist and arches his neck, moaning, while Brian presses wet, sucking kisses to his neck, pushing his hips up as he pulls Stéphane’s down.

Brian is mouthing at Stéphane’s collarbones when he gasps out, “Brian!” and pulls Brian’s head away with a hand fisted in his hair. He looks gorgeous, his mouth red and used, pupils wide and blown, skin flushed and sweaty. “We should go inside,” he says, running his hand down the side of Brian’s face, bringing his thumb to rest on Brian’s bottom lip, eyes following the movement of his hand, assessing.

Brian lets go and Stéphane slides down the door. Their eyes lock and hold while Brian turns the lock and Stéphane presses the lever open, tugging Brian into the darkness of the room with the hand buried in his hair.

Brian tries to lead them to his bedroom, relying purely on memory; Stéphane does his best to make things more difficult, pushing Brian’s jacket off his shoulders and toeing off his own shoes. He presses Stéphane against a bookshelf, stilling his hands where they’re trying to divest him of his belt.

“Bedroom,” he whispers. Stéphane merely nips his chin and resumes his task. Brian resigns himself to this lack of cooperation, clutches at Stéphane’s hips and firmly walks him backwards in the general direction of the bedroom.

He feels a tug as Stéphane pulls his belt free of his jeans, dropping it to the floor. He pushes his bedroom door open just as Stéphane finishes unbuttoning his jeans and sticks his hand inside, palming Brian through his underwear.

“Fuck,” he curses, unconsciously squeezing Stéphane’s hips hard.

“Oh,” Stéphane breathes, still for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Brian takes this opportunity to pull Stéphane’s sweater over his head and toss it to one side of the room before they’re kissing again, Stéphane’s fingers buried in Brian’s hair. Brian undoes two buttons on Stéphane’s relatively dry shirt until it becomes too complicated a task without the help of his eyes and decides to divest Stéphane of his trousers instead, sliding down Stéphane’s chest and mouthing at one nipple through his shirt.

Stéphane moans, hugs him close and steps out of his trousers and socks with Brian’s help. Brian licks a path back up to his mouth and kisses him deep, fingers hooked into the band of Stéphane’s underwear. Stéphane grabs both his hands and takes a step back. Brian makes a confused noise and tries to follow but Stéphane is adamant.

“Brian,” he says, voice low but firm. “Have you done this before?”

Brian licks his lips, hesitates, then answers. “Not like this.”

“What _have_ you done? Hands?” At this he squeezes Brian’s hands. “Mouth?” He runs a thumb over Brian’s lips.

Brian nods and Stéphane moves closer and brings their foreheads together. “Would you like to be inside me?” he whispers against Brian’s mouth. “I want you to have me.”

“Yes,” Brian breathes, heart pounding wildly in his chest, hands unconsciously tracing the ridges of Stéphane’s hipbones. “Please.”

Stéphane kisses him, soft and sweet, and they tumble into bed.

Brian divests himself of his T-shirt, jeans, pants and socks and, while Stéphane runs his hands over his newly bared skin, he pulls off Stéphane’s underwear and slides his shirt over his head and onto the floor.

“How do I . . .” he trails off and Stéphane chuckles, pulling him down into a kiss.

“Do you have any lotion?” Stéphane asks when they part.

Brian nods and reaches out to fetch the complimentary bottle of hand lotion and a condom from his nightstand. He drops the items on the bed and they resume kissing lazily, rubbing against each other.

“Here,” Stéphane says, taking Brian’s right hand and bringing it to his mouth, sucking at two fingers obscenely. He releases them with a lurid pop. Stéphane spreads his legs wider and drags Brian’s fingers up his thigh to rest them against where he is hottest. “You can use your hand.”

Or he can use something else, he realises, suddenly understanding Stéphane’s fixation with his lips. “Can I use my mouth?” he asks impulsively.

Stéphane’s breath stutters and Brian takes it as assent and goes to follow the path his fingers took with his mouth until he’s opening Stéphane up with his lips and tongue.

*

Brian wakes in the middle of the night, confused and disoriented. He blinks away the hazy could of sleep and sees Stéphane’s body curled toward his, hand resting under Brian’s cheek. The covers are a tangle at their feet so he goes to pull them over both their shoulders. Stéphane huffs and stirs but does not wake. Brian wraps an arm around his back and presses close, their faces touching.

It’s been too long since he’s shared his bed with a person and it’s strange and blanketing but, surprisingly, not at all constricting.

Brian falls back to sleep, content.

*  
The next time he wakes, his body tells him it is morning. He spares a bleary glance at the clock on his nightstand and sees that it is an hour before the time he is accustomed to rising. He does not understand why or what has caused him to jolt out of sleep at first but things slowly come into focus. First, the warmth of his sheets, the pleasant ache in his limbs, that heady rush of satisfaction over a night well spent.

Then he remembers. _Stéphane._

He looks around his bedroom and there is the source of his interrupted sleep. Stéphane is partially dressed in his slacks and button down, and is picking up his sweater from the carpeted floor while whispering in a frantic tone into his phone.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I completely forgot! No, no, I did not lose track of time this time. Yes, I know it’s either the former or the latter; I can’t help it. You know how I am. Please extend my sincerest apologies. Can we take the next flight? I’ll be there in an hour; I’ve to pick my suitcases from my apartment. Oh! You have them? Alright, half an hour then. I’m sure I can persuade the taxi to hurry. I’ll be safe, I promise. Alright. I’ll see you. Again, so sorry.”

“You have to leave, I take it?” Brian says insipidly.

Stéphane looks up from his phone and gives Brian a complicated look. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

Brian waves a dismissive hand.

“I have to go,” Stéphane says needlessly, eyes on the floor, hands fidgeting with his sweater.

Brian studies him for a moment before getting to his feet. “Come here.”

Stéphane shuffles close and Brian tilts his chin up and kisses him, soft and unhurried. Their lips part but their foreheads remain pressed together.

“I promise I’m not running away,” Stéphane breathes across his cheek.

Brian does not know if either of them believes that.

Minutes pass but they remain unaware, counting time by their heartbeats and shared breath. Stéphane breaks away reluctantly. “We need to talk,” he says, breaking the tenuous silence. “When I get back.”

Brian nods and Stéphane smiles tentative and unsure before turning to leave.

“Stéphane.”

He turns and Brian walks to him and hugs him until he feels Stéphane hug back. He lets go when he does not think he can stretch the moment any further.

Stéphane turns and walks away.

Brian thinks he is becoming maudlin in his old age because it feels like goodbye.

 

*Stéphane’s always been good at making promises but horrible at following through. This is why he avoids meeting Brian at the café for two weeks.

When he promised Brian in the hotel room that he wasn’t running away, he had intended to keep it. Or rather, he had intended to at the time. It wasn’t until three days into Moscow when one of the young ice dancers had drunk himself to an allergy-induced stupor (all because of a broken heart, bless him) that Stéphane had realized that love is a little bit _too_ destructive for his liking.

Yet he acknowledges the fact that he feels something for Brian. No, it is not love quite yet, or at least not the type of love he feels for both Roger and Carolina. It is far too early and far too soon to be truly in love and perhaps that is a good thing because Stéphane has no desire for his emotions to burgeon into something horribly gargantuan.

So Stéphane spends his last remaining days in Moscow practicing the fine art of sublimation, willing (or tricking) his heart to stop feeling for Brian.

He comes back to France shortly and mopes around his apartment, fancying himself into a self-imposed seclusion that involves burrowing beneath piles of blanket fashioned into a makeshift fort and neglecting to answer his phone.

On a Tuesday however, Stéphane decides to stop moping. It would not be fair to either one of them if he deigned to vanish completely. He summons enough courage to visit the café. He lingers at their usual corner, nursing a cup of tea that eventually turns cold from neglect.

But like all predictable events, Brian arrives. He greets Stéphane with a cup of coffee (of suitable temperature) and almost, but not quite, hesitates to take a seat.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Stéphane fidgets a bit and readjusts the coffee cup’s disposable sleeve. He only hopes he isn’t transparent enough for Brian to see through.

“How have you been?” Brian asks, putting his hand on top of Stéphane’s. It is heavy and rough yet familiar and inviting all at once.

Stéphane pulls his hand away and drops it to his lap. “I am well, and you?”

“Anxious.” Brian’s never been one for pleasantries anyway.

Stéphane focuses his gaze to the floor. The eyes are the windows to the soul and it is much too early to reveal his thoughts. So he opts not to reply as it is pointless and cruel to append Brian’s statement. The man’s only getting himself settled, after all.

Brian takes Stéphane’s chin and turns his head to face him. “Is something the matter? Have I done something wrong?”

Stéphane, having always been a non-confrontational person, pulls away.

“No, you have not.”

Brian frowns. “Then what is bothering you?”

“I think I have feelings for you,” Stéphane blurts out and then buries his face in his hands.

“Oh,” he hears Brian say.

Stéphane does not pry his fingers away to look at Brian’s expression. Or well, not so much, he opens his eyes midway to catch slivers of images from the spaces between his fingers. He loses the courage to do so and squeezes his eyes shut.

It is slightly embarrassing, not being able to stop himself, not to mention the lack of self control is beyond appalling. At the same time, the entire sequence frustrates him. He had imagined them to settle comfortably in one another’s presence first, maybe lapse back into old dialogues, and be rid of the awkwardness.

Then the conversation would progress naturally and it would be more fitting to throw in his statement in a nonchalant manner without having to seem like he parroted some soap opera heroine.

“I apologize,” Stéphane runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “That was wholly inappropriate.”

There is a slight pause. “I do not understand. You’re avoiding me because you love me?”

“You misunderstand. I _feel_ for you,” Stéphane corrects. Brian continues to look at him with a slightly puzzled expression. “They are of two different matters, varying in degrees of emotions. Also, I am not avoiding you.”

“Are you certain?” Brian asks. “I find your inability to look at me directly as avoidance.”

“It’s just habit.” Stéphane forces himself to look at Brian straight. He also suppresses the urge to scowl.

“I don’t know why you are so upset.”

Stéphane huffs. “I am not upset; I am merely distracted. I had a lot of things to think about these past few days.”

“What things?”

“This.” Stéphane makes a gesture with his hand to indicate the both of them. “Us. I think we should stop seeing each other. We both know it isn’t going to work.”

For some odd reason, Brian ends up chortling. Like everything is a big joke to him.

“ _I_ do not think it will work? You put words in my mouth. Why do you think it isn’t going to work?”

“Because you and I are different,” Stéphane sighs. “We do different things and are complete opposites of one another. It’s less likely to work out; it’s just the way things are.”

Brian exhales loudly. “That is an arrogant assumption; how can you tell for certain?”

“Maybe because I know myself too well,” Stéphane says softly. “Getting to know each other breaks the magic and I want to preserve our memories together when it is at its best. It will not be like before Brian, back when we knew nothing about each other. You will figure out all my flaws and wonder from time to time why you even bothered to put up with me. You will have to deal constantly with my erratic behaviour, and then you and I will get into fights because I am insolent, needy, and self absorbed and, God, things will be utterly horrid.”

It is the most honest Stéphane has ever been.

“You are a coward,” Brian enunciates each word slowly. “You run away from even the thought of possibly having to tackle future complications.”

The bluntness cuts through Stéphane like a knife. In hindsight, he knows he deserves it. It does not mean that the remark does not hurt, however.

“Now I remember why we can never be friends.” He grabs the strap of his bag from the back of his chair. So Brian has said his piece, perhaps it is time for him to leave before more regrettable words are exchanged.

“Why? Because I tell you the truth even when you do not want to hear it?”

Stéphane does not answer. He is not obligated to. He simply stalks out of the café knowing he will not be back anytime soon. Or maybe, forever.

*

Brian packs. He is done with his film, done with adopting a fake English accent, done with serene mornings sitting at a beautiful café, done with idle hopes, done with Montmartre and most especially, he tells himself, done with Stéphane.

It was extremely foolish of him to think that years of animosity and indifference could be erased by a few hours’ time together. It has always been a problem with Brian.

If the reader has yet to discern what this problem is, let us put it plainly: Brian is a romantic. He believes in love even when it seems the odds are insurmountable, when the likelihood of two souls ever joining in harmony is piteously infinitesimal, even when his parents divorced after years of marriage, Brian still believes.

But apparently, his conviction isn’t enough.

Not all love stories have happy endings, as a matter of fact, most love stories have horrid or gruesome or sad ends.

It disheartens us to think that this might just be one of them.

*

Stéphane goes about living his life like usual.

It is not a hard feat; a whirlwind of political galas, ice shows, press conferences, publicity stunts, and humanitarian efforts. Three months of nonstop subterfuge, charming the public with his child-like antics, and frolicking with big name personalities.

He avoids celebrity magazines; he does not even bother watching the local news anymore.

When all of it is over, he flies to Lausanne. For vacation, he tells Oliver. Oliver does not question his decision and merely cancels all of Stéphane’s appointments for the weeks to come. This makes Stéphane feel slightly guilty. After all, his plan of confining himself to his childhood home does not a vacation make.

After two weeks of moping in his room, Sylvia drags him by the collar to the Cine Qua Non to watch the latest movie in the Bond franchise.

Stéphane finds it ironic that even when Sylvia tries to make peace with him, she still ends up offending.

The next day, he leaves the house willingly—tells his parents that he’s meeting some old friends. He piles on heaps and heaps of scarves and sweaters and hats, and tops everything off with a pair of sunglasses. He walks around his neighbourhood then boards the metro.

He ends up in a tiny, obscure theatre and watches James Bond again for less than 15 francs.

*

Ironically, it is when Stéphane is bending down and grabbing his ankles that he realizes he has never stopped feeling for Brian. And all right, when pressed to admit it, he is also very much in love with Brian.

Because no one in their right mind would ever attempt to watch a James Bond film more than twenty-seven times. That is what Sylvia had told him when he dragged her to watch said film with him on five separate occasions. Especially after that one time when he had ended up sniffling on her shoulder and telling her how he ruined his life by being such a dense and egotistical prat.

Stéphane topples over and nearly hits his head on the bars of the inner-thigh machine. His fitness instructor, Grace, gives him an exasperated look.

He smiles at her sheepishly and declares, “I’m in love with Brian.”

*

Stéphane flies back to Paris the next day and rushes to the café immediately. He waits patiently and consumes three scones and four cups of coffee. He waits until Elsabeth shakes his shoulders and tells him they are closing.

Brian does not appear.

But Stéphane is optimistic; maybe Brian will be there tomorrow.

*

Stéphane visits the café every single day without fail. He spends an hour or two reading pocketbooks or staring off into space, whichever seems more appropriate for the day. He no longer invites friends to join him; he is selfish, he fears that building new memories on top of the old ones will allow Brian to completely slip away from him.

Today is day 189 for Stéphane.

Production for his morning show has just wrapped up and he is due for the Marriott gala in four hours. Instead of preparing or sleeping, he decides to spend the intervening hours eating croissants and drinking coffee, reading Simone de Beauvoir’s _‘L'Invitée’_ , a book he purchased a week ago at some rundown second-hand shop simply because the author’s name sounded smart and he was, admittedly, a very pretentious person.

Stéphane hears the door chime and pays it no heed. He’s tired of being disappointed.

He goes through two pages and stops completely. It is quite a depressing book but it does not interest Stéphane much; he has enough angst to deal with on a normal day, reading about it would be close to masochism.

Stéphane puts down the book and finds himself looking at Brian. Or rather, Brian’s crotch (he is seated after all and Brian is upright).

This is definitely not how he had imagined the scene to unfold in his head. But then again, he should be resigned to the fact that things hardly ever come out the way he wants them to.

So instead of greeting Brian with a warm “hello”, all he manages to say is a surprised: “You’re here.” Somehow, the phrase sounds accusatory and not modulated enough to sound sorrowful or passionate or sweet or dramatic or any of the emotions Stéphane intends to project.

Stéphane looks up and stares at Brian, still in disbelief—unable to reconcile with the fact that Brian is finally in front of him. Yet he is still so handsome, so very handsome.

So he tells Brian this because it might just be his last chance to do so or it might possibly help him along the line. He does not know.

Brian smiles at him and sits down. Stéphane still does not know what this all means; he also does not know what the future will hold but maybe this time he can welcome the uncertainty of it all.

*

Years later, when asked about his relationship with Stéphane, Brian will say that it was fate that brought them together. A nauseatingly mawkish answer, yes, but one he believes to be true nonetheless.

What else would have compelled Brian to eschew the restaurant in his hotel in favour of a small café quite a distance away, a café which just happened to be one which Stéphane frequents at nearly the same time?

That strange impulse one sleepless night to go to the café and try to lull himself into some semblance of relaxation by reading the newspaper only to find himself face to face with a distraught Stéphane and have their very first real conversation?

And how would one explain the strange compulsion Brian felt, eleven months after Stéphane had run away from him, while attending a movie premiere in Paris to decline invitations to the after party and walk the streets alone until he stumbled upon that very same café only to see Stéphane through the glass storefront?

Of course the story could have ended there, with Brian seeing Stéphane and making a hasty retreat but as proven time and again, Brian is a romantic and still hopelessly enamoured with Stéphane – has been for quite some time and though he may be an honest person, sometimes even the most honest person may find it difficult to be completely truthful to themselves.

What Brian had dismissed as a twinge of old infatuation at the beginning of this tale and thought to have been rekindled by constant exposure to Stéphane has actually been something that has been burning ever-present in the background of his consciousness.

See, he had never really fallen out of love with Stéphane – for while his head might have convinced him to give up on his feelings, his heart (convinced of its superiority in such matters) has never cried out its defeat.

Another thing about Brian; he is as stubborn as he is quixotic. (This is a bone of contention between Brian and Stéphane. Brian is stubborn while Stéphane is fickle and it only their shared conviction in their love that allows them to see past one another’s flaws and try to tamper their less than admirable qualities – and is that not what love does to _all_ people?)

But do they live happily ever after?

Possibly.

As much as two people who are not characters from a Disney cartoon can live happily ever after (and no, Stéphane is not actually a Disney prince, no matter how many children – and Brian – claim him to be so).

 _Fin._


End file.
